To The Poet Laureate

(ON HIS REPORTED SELF-SUFFICIENCY.)

You—you—‘tis you have failed to understand
That England’s Workmen are her all-in-all,
And social wrongs that devastate our land
Will wreak Old England’s fall,
Be navies small or great.

In twaddling rhymes that move the reader’s mirth
You bid us lord it over land and sea—
Poor poet, what are all those pratings worth ?
How sad, to those who struggle to be free,
Is this thy servile state !

You—you—who once did champion Freedom sweet,
But now prefer a barren titled place,—
When workmen starve by thousands, is it meet
To urge on war apace,
Our Jingo Laureate?